


mouth like a bruise

by wyverning



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Breaking and Entering, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, andrew the 'oh no he's hot' gay, featuring the columbia house, neil is still on the run, neil the lying liarpants, why does every conversation between andrew and neil feel like foreplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-01-28 22:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21399811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyverning/pseuds/wyverning
Summary: Neil gets more than he bargained for when he breaks into a house in Columbia that isn't quite as uninhabited as it appears.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 76
Kudos: 412





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes you just gotta take whatever ride the nanowrimo inspiration train gives you
> 
> tw: minor anxiety attack at the end of the chapter.

Neil’s not usually this stupid. 

There’s always been a pattern to the houses that are worth breaking into: they need to be in empty neighborhoods, abandoned by owners or construction companies, and far enough away from the liveliness of the city that he can move in and out of the buildings undetected. Littered around the country are so many forgotten homes, and Neil and his mother have taken advantage of the neglect for years. 

He knows how to case a house, how to evaluate a neighborhood for what he needs. A lack of electricity is fine, but running water is often a necessity; people will overlook a kid in worn-out clothing, but a basic measure of cleanliness keeps him under the radar of overly-concerned samaritans.

The heat of a sticky South Carolina summer clings to him, and he craves a break from it. The only problem is that Neil's current idea of a solution is sloppy, and he knows how easily _sloppy_ can become _dead._

It’s not that he doesn’t know better, it’s just — he’s so fucking _ tired. _ And he’s been squatting in an alley just a few miles away, taking daily runs past this clearly-vacated house for almost a week, and the idea of a potentially-warm shower and a soft bed to sleep on, if even for just a day, is too tempting to resist.

He ignores the warning bells in his head that tell him the area is too comfortably lived in, that there are neighbors present in every direction. It’s not the best residential part of the city, though, and there aren’t even any home security signs posted on properties in the area. People living in the area means Neil might even get _ hot _ water for a shower, and even though it’s risky, he feels the fatigue of sleeping on asphalt so regularly weighing him down.

Neil needs a break. Just for a moment.

Columbia’s a big enough city that it’s easy to get lost in. Neil doesn’t stand out as he jogs through the neighborhood, surreptitiously checking for any pedestrians or cars driving down the street. When it’s clear there’s nobody around — it’s Friday night, after all, and most people are doing the things people do when they don’t have a death sentence hovering over their heads — he hops the fence of the house he’s been eyeballing.

He wastes no time picking the lock of the door to the garage. It’s the easiest way in, and will give him cover as he handles the doors that will take him inside.

It smells like — boy, once he’s inside. It reminds Neil of the locker rooms he’s slept in before, the clinging odor of sweat and a sad attempt at some sort of cleaning disinfectant clinging to the walls. The house isn’t an absolute mess, but neither is it so scrubbed clean that Neil suspects someone comes by regularly to tidy up. If he had to guess, it’s somebody’s summer home, or something. They only come out for a few weeks every year, and leave it abandoned and ripe for somebody like Neil to steal a night or two of sleep in the rest of the time.

There are a few bedrooms, but looking at them from the doorways, Neil feels awkward and unwelcome. Even if people aren’t here regularly, the beds still _ belong _ to someone — multiple someones, even, judging by the varying decorations that hang in each bedroom’s walls. He’s far too used to sleeping on abandoned floors; furniture is a luxury he’s never needed to be concerned with.

When he passes the bathroom, he looks at the shower longingly but then decides against it. He’ll shower in the morning; he’s far too exhausted to stay upright for much longer, and the adrenaline from breaking in has already pumped through him and left him high and dry. He can worry about it in the morning.

With relief, Neil discovers a den with a comfortable-looking couch pushed up against one wall. He puts his duffle bag on one end, entwining his arm with the strap before he settles on the couch. He hopes for at least one uninterrupted night of rest.

* * *

Neil wakes with a jolt to the scratch of a key in a lock.

His muscles freeze for an instant, an instinctive response to his own complete _ idiocy _ and the very present danger about to walk through the front door, before he bolts. He’s on the second floor, which means he’ll have to jump out the window, but there’s no time to do anything but jerk the window up, punch out the screen, and swing through the open space.

Impact on the ground is hard, but he would have died long ago if he didn’t know how to roll to avoid injury to his ankles. There’s a sharp, clear instant where Neil can see the path to freedom, a cracked concrete sidewalk with dim lamps lighting the way.

It’s snatched from him with a sudden blunt pain to his gut that’s so physically overwhelming he can’t do anything but fall to his knees, arms wrapped around his middle as all of the breath is forced from his lungs.

Neil stares dizzily at the star-speckled sky, unsure of when he went from being upright to having his back pressed against the concrete. He brings a shaking hand to feel at the tenderness of his ribs. They don’t appear to be broken, but the pain is so vividly present he’s not sure he can move just yet. 

What the fuck was he hit with? A crowbar? An iron pipe? 

He can’t afford to look, to waste time speculating.

“Going somewhere, rabbit?” a voice drawls from above him, and it’s equal parts relief and terror to Neil that he doesn’t recognize it.

Not knowing who’s accosted him means _ nothing, _ he reminds himself sharply. His father has endless resources at his disposal, and him hiring a few new criminals to do his dirty work makes Neil’s life on the run all the more dangerous. Anyone who crosses his path could be a threat: just because he knows what Lola and Romero and Jackson look like doesn’t mean he’s a good judge of character for literally anyone else.

“Not very well, apparently,” Neil wheezes, giving himself two more breaths before he tries to run again. He just needs one more second to overcome the pain and flee.

Or he would, if not for the cold press of metal to the underside of his chin.

Definitely one of his father’s men, then.

Like hell if Neil’s going down without a fight. Even with the threat of a knife slitting his throat open, Neil takes the risk: he twists on the ground until his foot connects with the hard kneecap of his assailant, and when the man hisses in pain or fury, Neil pushes dirty hands to the pavement and takes off. His duffle bag swings wildly from its position around his arm, and he frantically adjusts the strap so it’s pressed snugly against his back.

It’s unlikely that the man doesn’t have back-up in a car, ready to chase Neil down, but his only other option is to die easily at the hands of these lackeys.

His lungs are already burning from the hit, which puts him at a disadvantage, but Neil’s always been good on his feet. He tears down the neighborhood sidewalk, mind desperately directing him toward the busier part of the city he’d memorized days ago. Anything to lose his tail.

Neil doesn’t quite make it that far. He’d been expecting the hum of a car engine following him down the streets, but instead, the quick slap of shoes on the pavement behind him is his only warning before he’s fucking _ tackled _ to the ground. His arms are wrenched behind him before he can even fight back, firm hands clamped down like manacles around his wrists. 

“Jesus, Andrew,” another voice says, approaching them almost as quickly as the first man who had taken him down. Neil keeps his eyes screwed shut, as though not seeing the men above him will protect him from harm. “He wasn’t even doing anything.”

“Why don’t you run like that during practice?” someone else chimes in, and they sound _ far _ too casual for people about to tear him limb from limb. It’s a sort of detachment that Neil’s familiar with, though; over the years, Lola has also perfected a casual nonchalance while she commits terrible crimes. 

Neil grits his teeth against his helplessness. 

“Oh, shit,” the first voice mumbles. “Running was a bad idea. Fuck, Kevin, I’m going to puke,” and then there are retching noises a short distance away.

It appears his father will hire anyone these days.

“Take Nicky and walk in front of me,” the man who’s subduing Neil commands. His voice is a growl, and he sounds almost as pissed as Neil feels. The name sounds almost familiar, but Neil’s mind is too addled with fear to grab onto the loose thread.

Neil tries to jerk out of his grip, to no avail. “Let me go.”

“Oh, no. The fun’s only just beginning, rabbit.”

He’s hauled to his feet, and Neil finally turns sharp eyes on his attacker. It startles him to see that he’s shorter than Neil is, though the muscles bulging out of the dark shirt he’s wearing explain how he can restrain Neil so easily.

Thick combat boots kick at Neil’s feet. “Keep moving.”

They’re walking behind the other two men who had followed them — one’s almost obscenely tall, holding the sick one up as they trudge back to wherever they’re headed. When they finally reach the house Neil had broken into, he feels a tiny, almost negligible inkling of hope.

Is it possible they’re _ not _ the Butcher’s men? Could they just be disgruntled homeowners, understandably upset to have found someone broken into their house?

He supposes he’ll find out sooner or later, though Neil prefers the _ sooner _ version. He needs to know exactly what kind of danger he’s in. “Look, I’m sorry. It was an accident.”

The blond gripping his wrists tightly lets out a soft noise of disbelief. “You _ accidentally _ broke into our house.”

_ No, _ Neil thinks. _ I accidentally got caught. _

“You brought him back here, Andrew? What the fuck?” yet _ another _ person says, and Neil wonders exactly who the fuck these guys are. It can’t be normal for this many people to just… cohabitate a house. The one who’s just spoken looks identical to the man dragging him through the entryway of the house — twins, then.

Nicky, Andrew… again the names tug at something in his thoughts. Neil knows them, he’s positive. But from _ where? _

He’s forced into the living room, which is one of the few areas of the house Neil didn’t bother to check out. It’s too close to the front windows, which have cheap blinds covering them, and he hadn’t wanted to risk the visibility.

In the face of the men who live here, it’s clear that this is where they spend the bulk of their time. There’s a gaming console resting next to the widescreen tv, along with a haphazard pile of games stacked on a nearby shelf. The furniture looks well-worn. Neil pointedly does not let his attention catch on what looks like an exy racquet propped up in the corner of the room.

“I appreciate you not calling the cops,” Neil says truthfully. It’s a rarity for him not to lie, but he’s not sure he could sneak his way out of the back of a cruiser. 

His captor — Andrew, Neil supposes, if the words of the others are to be trusted — points at his twin and the tall guy with black hair. “Out. Now. Nicky, stay.”

Neil’s almost distracted enough by the groaning of Nicky, who clearly still isn’t up to par after his puking adventure in his neighbor’s bushes, that he doesn’t notice the men leave.

Almost.

His breath stutters in his chest when the tall guy steps into the hallway, a nearby lighting fixture illuminating his high cheekbones — and the resulting tattoo embedded in his skin.

Fuck. _ Fuck, _ hadn’t one of them called him _ Kevin? _

“Oh,” Andrew — shit, he’s got to be Andrew _ Minyard, _ the psycho goalie of the fucking Palmetto Foxes, who took Kevin Day in after his hand injury — says softly, tapping Neil’s wrist. He’s still gripping Neil with enough force that he’s stuck immobile. “Interesting.”

His heartbeat is out of control. It’s clear Andrew can feel his pulse, which picked up a frantic rhythm the moment he realized he’s in the same house as _ Kevin fucking Day, _ and maybe it would have been better for them to have been his father’s men.

“If you let me go, you’ll never see me again.” Neil’s spilling truths like his life is on the line. Maybe it is.

“See, the thing is, I’m not sure I can believe you.”

“I promise.” He wants nothing more than to _ leave. _ This house, this city, this state. The idea of heading back to the West Coast makes nausea roil in his stomach, but he’ll go that far if it means he can walk away from this.

Andrew hums noncommittally. “What value does the promise of a runaway have?”

“What do you even _ want?” _ Neil spits. It’s clear that the pleading route isn’t going to work; maybe the offensive will be a more effective approach.

“What I want,” Andrew says, and in a flash, he’s pressing yet another knife into the flesh of Neil’s stomach, “is to know why someone with a cardiovascular reaction to Kevin Day broke into our house. And don’t tell me it’s a coincidence, rabbit. I don’t believe in them.”

“I want nothing more than to be far, far away from Kevin. I had no idea this was his house.”

Andrew pauses at that. Neil knows Kevin’s been camped out at Palmetto since his hand was injured. He’s kept tabs on him to avoid a scenario precisely like this one. He’s absurdly thankful that Andrew had sent Kevin out of the room before he’d had the chance to get a good look at Neil. Even with his hair dyed a dull brown, he’s not wearing his contacts.

Now that he thinks about it, there’s no reason for Kevin to be hours away in Columbia, unless… “He doesn’t live here.”

“Oh, are there some brains rattling around alongside all of that adrenaline?”

His patronizing tone grates on Neil’s nerves. The knife threatening to gut him is a very real presence, but he thinks Andrew could’ve hurt him much more badly by now if he’d felt the need to.

He’s fairly confident they’re not connected to his father at all. It’s almost a blessing, if he can only wiggle his way out of this one.

“I’m sorry,” Neil says slowly, “for breaking into your house. Nobody’s been here for weeks.” _ You weren’t supposed to be here while I was _ goes unsaid.

There’s a loud groan from the loveseat next to the couch, and Neil jumps. He’d completely forgotten that Nicky was still in the room. 

“Come _ on,” _ Nicky says, voice muffled as he half-talks into the cushion. “Interrogations like this have to end in either hot, kinky sex, or a shoot-out. You guys are nowhere near _ either _ of those, so can’t we just get some rest and deal with Mr. Mysterious tomorrow morning, when I’m sober and my mouth doesn’t taste like death?”

“Nicky,” Andrew says, voice a low warning.

Nicky appears not to fear this tiny blond man. He picks his head up off the cushion and squints at Neil. “Mr. Mysterious is a dumb name, I’m sorry. I promise to call you by your actual name — hey, what _ do _ we call you?”

There are fifteen different aliases on the tip of his tongue that he could use, but Neil still surprises himself by offering a soft, “Neil.”

There’s a quiet hurt nestled in his breast at the thought of giving up _ Neil Josten, _but he supposes it has overstayed its welcome. It aches alongside the real pain of his ribs. It’s a night for complete idiocy, apparently. His eyes flick toward the exy racquet in the corner of the room, and he almost wishes he could sabotage himself that extra step.

“What do you want with Kevin?” It seems that even Nicky’s interjection won’t derail Andrew’s interrogation.

Neil Josten is going to have to disappear into nothingness the moment he walks through the door. “Nothing. I just… admire him.”

Andrew stares at him flatly. “You admire him.”

_ He has everything I don’t. _ “He’s really good at exy.”

“Do you play?” 

The words come from Kevin himself, standing in the entryway to the living room. Neil tamps down on an instinctive flinch at the full force of his attention, hoping desperately he’s not recognized. “No.”

It’s one of the endless truths of his that he wishes were a lie. He wishes he didn’t give a shit about any of this, that he was literally _ anybody _ else. That he wasn’t stupid enough to end up on the East Coast, a few states away from the city that’s been calling for his death since his mom ran away with him years ago. That his dad’s blood didn’t pump through his veins.

That he could’ve grown up playing exy.

In a heartbeat, Kevin reaches into his pocket and chucks something in Neil’s direction. It isn’t until after he’s instinctively caught the object, interrupting its trajectory of slamming directly into his face, that he realizes it’s an exy ball. What Kevin Day is doing with an exy ball on his person in the middle of the night is anybody’s guess.

“Good reflexes. Don’t kill him, Andrew, we might need him.”

“No.” Neil and Andrew say it simultaneously, and Neil can’t believe that _ Andrew Minyard _ seems to be the only one on his side. He’s still threatening Neil with a knife, for fuck’s sake.

“I find it curious that absolutely nobody in this house listens to me,” Andrew says, shooting a glare at Kevin. Neil suspects that, were he not preoccupied with keeping Neil in place, he’d be pointing his weapon at Kevin, instead. “He’s not for you to play with.”

“You know we need a striker sub.” Kevin takes his phone out. “I’m letting Coach know.”

“I’m not playing exy,” Neil says, a bit too frantically. Playing is absolutely off-limits. His mother’s probably screaming at him in the afterlife for even being in the same building as Kevin, not to mention how public his face will become if he plays in a college league. He feels the phantom sting of Mary's hand slapping angrily at him.

It’s unthinkable. It’s impossible.

“I don’t know,” Nicky says, pushing himself into a sitting position. He appears to have recovered from his alcohol-induced stupor. “Signing someone who broke into our house _ does _ kind of seem like a Fox move.”

Neil’s got to be losing his mind. “What is even happening right now?”

“Nothing,” Andrew responds. “Kevin, go to bed. Nicky, shut the fuck up.”

Fuck all of this. If Andrew’s going to stab him for running, then he’ll just get clear of this house of crazed maniacs and treat his injuries in private. He’s not staying here. 

The sound of a phone ringing interrupts Neil’s current plan of action to elbow Andrew in the gut and try to make a break for it. For somebody’s benefit, Neil has no idea whose, Kevin’s put the call on speaker.

Someone picks up and barks a sharp, “What?”

“We’ve got a replacement for Janie,” Kevin says without preamble.

The gruff voice says, “It’s three in the goddamn morning, Kevin. What the fuck?”

Kevin huffs impatiently. “He’s faster than almost all of us even with a chest injury. Quick reflexes. The Foxes need a striker sub, and we found one.”

“In _ Columbia?” _

“I don’t play exy,” Neil says. It must be loud enough for the guy on the phone — _ Coach, _ apparently — to hear, because he says, “Real fucking promising. Call me back when I’ve had a full night of sleep without your bullshit.”

Then he hangs up on Kevin Day.

The only explanation that Neil’s mind can conjure is that he’s somehow been killed by his father, and this is a bizarre dream preceding his descent into hell. At least Kevin hasn’t recognized him, yet.

But he will. And when he does, Neil’s life is forfeit.

It’s the final nail in the coffin: the thin thread of sanity he’d been clinging to in the face of all that’s happened snaps, and his exhaustion hits him full-force alongside the sheer, unbridled panic.

Everything collapses in on itself. He can’t bring himself to care about anything other than that he’s finally gone crazy. Even breathing becomes a difficult task, the ragged pull of oxygen from his lungs suffocating and impossible. He can’t do this. Running’s the only thing he’s good at, and this impossible group of men aren’t even letting him do _ that. _

“Neil.” A voice cuts through the fear. “Neil. Listen to me. Here’s how tonight is going to go,” Andrew’s saying. Neil forces himself to focus on Andrew’s words; it’s hard to calm down, but a tenuous glimmer of sanity reels him back in: he can’t afford to handicap himself any further. His father’s men would devour this sort of vulnerability and grind him into dust in an instant. He needs to calm down. “You’re going to make yourself real cozy in the bathroom, and in the morning, we’ll see if you’ve managed to make up some more creative answers.”

Andrew pats a hand on Neil’s duffle, and a sharp, icy feeling shoots through him. The casual touching of his only possession sets him on edge, but he can’t ignore Nicky’s expectant gaze and Kevin’s equally demanding one.

“Fine,” he manages to bite out, clutching his bag closer to him. Whatever. This sudden acquiescence from Andrew is a lucky break. He’ll slip out of the house the moment everyone falls asleep; they haven’t killed him for breaking in, and he doubts they’ll even remember much in the morning.

By then, Neil will be long gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things do not go according to plan.

Things do not go according to plan. In fact, things go in a direction so far off course that Neil’s pretty sure they’re not even in the same solar system anymore. It’s likely that he’s been shit out of luck since before Mary was shot and bleeding out in their stolen car.

His plan is this: nod along dumbly to whatever Andrew and Kevin say so that they’ll take him to the bathroom and leave him blessedly alone so he can vacate the premises and the city and the state and possibly even the entire continental United States.

What _ actually _ happens is this: he's ushered toward the bathroom by Kevin while Andrew disappears for a moment, only to return with a shockingly orange power drill in one hand and a few screws in the other. Neil watches, dumbfounded and begrudgingly impressed, as Andrew drills the screws into the metal frame of the small bathroom window, effectively making it impossible for Neil’s premeditated escape.

“Is that really necessary,” Neil can’t help but ask, pissed off.

Andrew shoots a pointed glance at the duffle bag Neil’s cradling in his arms. “I’m just dying to find out if you’ve got some power tools stashed away in there.”

Nevermind the old plan. Neil’s new and improved plan involves smashing Andrew Minyard’s head against something hard and painful. Multiple times.

The menace himself shuts the bathroom door so quietly and politely that it has to be a statement in and of itself. The solid _ thump _ of what has to be Andrew’s back hitting the closed door seals Neil inside the small room, and he wants to scream in frustration.

Fuck.

_ Fuck. _

All he wants is to get out of here: to run away, and hope these shitheads forget he was even here, but they seem all-too-eager to make that an impossibility. 

"Stop thinking so hard, rabbit," Andrew says from the other side of the door. "You'll only hurt yourself."

"Fuck you," Neil says. "You've basically kidnapped me. Think those charges would affect your scholarship?"

There’s no way out of the bathroom with the window screwed shut, but that doesn’t mean Neil’s helpless. He climbs into the bathtub and flicks open the caps of the various shower products lining the tub’s corners.

Andrew's response is a sarcastic drawl. "Oh, no. Whatever will I do when stickball is torn from my grasp?"

It's almost like he doesn't care about his own life. The words make Neil angry, sloppy. If he doesn't get to escape tonight, then at least he can keep Andrew up and make him miserable from sleep deprivation. "Oh, I forgot," Neil says. "You're already on the hook for aggravated assault, right? What's another charge on top of that?"

He squirts an overly-scented body wash that boasts _ Go ahead! Be fresh! _ directly into the tub’s drain.

"You've done your research."

Of course Neil has. He knows as much about Kevin and the people he's surrounded himself with as he could find in the public domain. "And you've missed a few doses of medication."

This is Neil's problem: when he stays in one place for too long, he finds it impossible to keep his head down. To keep his mouth shut. To be as boring and unnoticeable as possible.

Andrew Minyard brings out the worst in him.

"Neil Josten," Andrew says. Even through the door, his voice is as clear as it would be speaking directly into Neil's ear. "You might turn out to be interesting, after all."

_ I don't want to be interesting, _ Neil thinks. _ Interesting _ means other people will take notice. _ Interesting _ means people will care enough to see through his lies. _ Interesting _ means _ trackable. _

He grits his teeth. "I'd rather be gone."

Neil’s run out of body wash: the empty bottle lets out a pathetic wheeze as he tries to push the remaining air out, and he covers for the noise with a terribly-unconvincing cough.

"Nobody obsessed with Kevin Day would be this upset to receive his attention. His praise."

Oh, they're back on this again. He grabs another bottle, this one labelled as some kind of acne treatment. "You don't seem to give a shit about exy. Why even bother going along with what he wants?" It's been bothering Neil since he watched Andrew drill the window shut: wouldn't it be easier for all of them if they let him go?

There are like, seven different types of shampoo and conditioner littering the bathtub. Apparently nobody in this house has ever heard of sharing. Neil sets to his task.

"Kevin's promised me something," Andrew says. "And I'm a man of my word. You, on the other hand…"

Words are nothing but a tool to Neil. A means to an end. Nobody living knows the full truth of his existence, not anymore, and he needs to keep it that way in order to survive. People hear what they want to hear, and lies smooth the rest over. A man can say anything, but it's what they _ do _ that truly matters. Neil's learned that the hard way.

Besides, Andrew didn't want jack shit to do with his promises ten minutes ago when Neil said he'd vanish from their lives if they'd just let him _go._

"Then let me leave," Neil tries again, though he already knows how this argument will go. "You'll never trust me, and I don't want you to."

"Or I could just kill you," Andrew says, so calmly it feels like a truth. "I have a feeling there's nobody that would miss you."

A hysterical noise bubbles up and out of his throat. To distract himself, Neil carefully pushes himself out of the tub and brings the most expensive-looking hair products to the toilet. "Whatever Kevin promised you, it must be good."

The flick of what sounds like a lighter greets Neil's ears. A moment later, the smell of smoke filters through the door frame and into the bathroom. Andrew's cigarette soothes the hurt in Neil's chest as he's brought back to that cold night on the beach in California, watching his mother burn. 

It's only been a few months since Mary died, and Neil had gotten on the first flight that would take him as far away from the West Coast as possible. A bus from Raleigh to Columbia had landed him here, locked in a bathroom with a psychopath who won't let him leave.

It's almost comical. 

He flushes the toilet and watches the swirl of thick conditioner go down the pipes alongside the water. Then, he flushes it twice more, just to annoy Andrew.

There's no way he can concede to their demands. Their proposition is impossibly dangerous, and foolish to boot. Andrew seems to know that Neil’s a hazard, but he also seems to be entertaining Kevin far too seriously.

Neil knows this with bone-deep certainty: he will not survive if he says yes.

But oh, _ god, _ does some part of him want to. 

Kevin’s found a family here, people to care about him and protect him from manic teenaged runaways breaking into their house. Neil’s a born liar, but even he can’t convince himself that he doesn’t want exactly the same thing.

"What happens if I stay?" Neil asks quietly, hating the vulnerability he can hear in his voice. He'll entertain the fantasy, just for a moment.

"You get to play for the country's shittiest Division 1 exy team," Andrew says. "Under the guidance of Kevin, the country's shittiest motivational speaker."

It would be nice, to play exy and pretend doing so wouldn't stamp a death sentence on his forehead. Neil can imagine it: the weight of an exy stick in his hands, the satisfying burn in his lungs after running down the court and scoring. A jersey with his name on it, even if it isn’t the one on his birth certificate. A team to play with, to bump shoulders and grin about the victories and bitch about the losses together.

It'd be a good lie, for however long it lasted.

His father's men would undoubtedly find him, undoing both Mary's hard work and her sacrifice, but the more Neil thinks about it, the harder it is to pretend it’ll be easy to decline an offer like the one Kevin’s just handed him. 

Being on the run with his mother had been surviving in its most raw form, but he's not sure that'll be _ enough _ anymore. He’s clearly too much of a fucking idiot to survive on his own, if this little escapade has taught him anything. If he’s going to die without her, isn’t it worth it to enjoy what little time he has left?

"And," Andrew continues, "you give me something tangible, so I don't just kill you and wash my hands of this entirely."

Neil only ended up in this house because he'd been tired of running. Can he really turn down a chance at something else?

He's been quiet for long enough that the smell of smoke has faded. "My parents are dead," he says finally, voice raw, "but they stole a lot of money from a crime family." The half-truth burns in his throat. "They want me to give it back, but I won't. I've been running for years." _ I can't_, he doesn't add. Most of it had been spent by Mary during their time on the run.

"Is it going to endanger the people under my protection?"

"No," Neil lies. "They only want me."

He'll leave when the Butcher and his men find him, removing himself from the situation before anyone else can be hurt. It's the least he can do.

If he's going to commit to this, this — attempt at living, then he'll do what he can to minimize collateral damage. It might not be enough, but Neil on the run has never failed to be an all-encompassing temptation for Nathan Wesninski.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"You don't," Neil says. If things go wrong, he'll do his best to get the hell out of dodge before his father's men get the idea to turn their attention toward the rest of Palmetto, but there’s no guarantee. Hell, Neil’s sprinkled in a partial truth amongst an entire story of falsehoods. Someday Andrew will learn exactly how easy it is for people to break their word. Maybe then he’ll stop demanding nonsensical promises.

Neil stares up at the screwed-shut window. It feels almost metaphorical.

“But,” he says, and then chews on the word. “I… I think I want this.”

"You'll hide in plain sight," Andrew says.

"What?"

"Kevin will build you up in the public view. He thinks you have potential, and beside him, you'll stand out. Make a mark. With everyone's eyes on you, it'll be difficult for them to get away with harming you."

It's the exact opposite of what will _ really _ happen, but Neil swallows thickly and says, "Sure. Yeah."

He’s really about to fucking do this, isn’t he? Suicide by exy.

“Welcome to the Foxes, rabbit. Don’t run too fast, or we’ll mistake you for food.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kevin makes an annoyed noise in the back of his throat. “I need to know if he’s going to be any good.”
> 
> “Lots of needs here, Kevin, but they’re all about yourself. _You’re_ the one who wants him on the team, not me.” Andrew looks bored of the conversation. “Playing exy is not my priority. We’re going to Eden’s before we leave.”

Despite their uneasy alliance — if something this fragile and tenuous could truly be called as such — Andrew refuses to let Neil out of the bathroom until morning.

It’s a shitty thing to do, considering Neil’s just agreed to join their team and he can’t possibly be held captive in a tiny restroom for the entirety of the time he’s playing for the Palmetto Foxes, but. Neil supposes he wouldn’t really trust himself from the outside, either.

Vindictively, he’s glad that nobody in this house will have a pleasant shower the next time they try for one. His back aches from lying on the cold tile with nothing but a towel and his duffle bag for support; it’s not as though he’s unused to sleeping in awful positions and situations, but the couch in the den had been so damn comfortable that it seems a waste not to let Neil relocate for the night.

He’d managed to doze off for at least a few hours, confident that if Andrew had tried to enter the bathroom while he was unconscious, he’d startle awake at the intrusion. No such thing had occurred, thankfully.

Speaking of which — Neil’s honestly not sure if Andrew slept a wink out there, either. He’d obviously felt it was his responsibility to guard the door until sunrise, which couldn’t have been more comfortable than Neil’s own sleeping situation. Neil’s uneasy rest had been filled with the soft, clinging smell of cigarette smoke.

When he starts to hear the sounds of the house’s other occupants waking up, Neil gets up, swaps out his dirtied clothes for a new pair from his bag, and then musters the courage to stare at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. If he looks at himself for too long, he can see every tendril of his father’s influence in his appearance, but even worse than facing himself is the dilemma Neil’s unthinkingly put himself in.

Icy blue eyes stare back at him.

According to his forged driver’s license, Neil Josten has brown eyes and brown hair. And _ brown _ is truly the most apt description of them: they’re not meant to draw attention or garner more than a cursory glance. Nobody would take a look at the mousy, boring strands atop his head and call them _ caramel _ or _ chestnut _ or _ mahogany. _

His forged license does _ not _ say he has blue eyes.

In his attempt at escaping the prior night, Neil hadn’t bothered to put contact lenses in. Getting caught and coming face-to-face with multiple members of his new _ team _ — and shit, if the mere thought of such a thing doesn’t make his fool heart _ soar _ — means that everyone knows his real eye color, now.

It’s just one more thing that will make him stand out, one more nail in the coffin as Nathan’s men scour the country for any hint of him. His father may still be in prison, but that doesn’t mean he’s safe. Identifiable characteristics like his eye color are going to land him in deep shit if the wrong people take notice.

Neil tears his gaze away from the too-blank image of himself. It’s fine: he was running low on contacts, anyway, and doesn’t have the connections Mary did to find an optometrist who wouldn’t ask too many questions about plano lenses in a wide array of colors.

There’s a sharp knock on the door before Andrew says, “Wake up. If I have to endure Kevin’s bitching, so do you.”

Neil notices that Andrew doesn’t open the door for him. It’s odd enough to make a note of, but the handle opens easily enough when Neil twists it. He clutches his duffle bag in his arms, reluctant to leave it anywhere in this house unattended, and heads into the kitchen. It takes a significant amount of effort to resist the urge to bolt as soon as he’s out of the bathroom.

“We need to go back to Palmetto,” Kevin’s arguing, jostling the mug of coffee in his hand as he speaks. “There are only three months left of summer. Neil needs to be on the court, practicing. _ Now.” _

_ “We _ don’t need to do anything,” Andrew responds, sounding for all the world like managing Kevin is his day job. Hell, maybe it is. “I’m not leaving Columbia until tomorrow.”

_ “Andrew.” _

“Kevin.”

Kevin makes an annoyed noise in the back of his throat. “I need to know if he’s going to be any good.”

“Lots of needs here, Kevin, but they’re all about yourself. _ You’re _ the one who wants him on the team, not me.” Andrew looks bored of the conversation. “Playing exy is not my priority. We’re going to Eden’s before we leave.”

Kevin’s words stir something in his stomach, and Neil’s skin prickles excitedly at the thought of getting to practice. He agrees with Kevin: put him on the court with a racquet in his hand. Let him run to score a goal instead of for his life.

“Two nights in a row?” Nicky calls out from the living room. He peeks his head over the back of the couch, and at the thought of going to whatever _ Eden’s _ is, he looks simultaneously excited and a bit green around the gills.

Andrew nods. “Tell Aaron.”

Kevin does not seem pleased at this development. Neil remains quiet, not entirely sure why they’re debating it. Heading toward Palmetto makes the most sense, especially if they’re serious about Neil joining the team. He’s sure there will be paperwork or something equally as unappealing to fill out before he’s allowed to play, but the reward will be worth it.

“It’ll be a waste of time to go,” Kevin whines. “We could be training.”

“Kevin,” Andrew says, taking a long pull from his own cup of coffee. It smells faintly of chocolate. “Shut the fuck up.”

* * *

“What the fuck,” Andrew’s twin, Aaron, yells from the bathroom.

Neil bites down on his lower lip to stifle a smile.

“What, _ what the fuck? _” Nicky echoes back from his room, where he’s apparently getting ready for the club they’re going to.

From breaking into houses to going to nightclubs, Neil’s life has changed drastically in the last 24 hours.

“What happened to all of our shit?” Aaron looks pissed as he storms out into the hallway, dripping wet with a towel wrapped around his waist. He’s holding an empty bottle of something and shaking it angrily in the air. Neil tries to sink into the couch until he’s invisible, but it doesn’t seem to work, because Aaron stomps his way into the living room and points the bottle accusingly at Neil. _ “You.” _

“Me?” Neil briefly wonders if Aaron’s the sibling he should have been watching out for.

“What did Neil do?” Kevin asks as he steps into the living room. He’s dressed in a similar get-up as he was last night, all dark colors and tight clothes. 

“All of our bottles are empty. _ All _ of them.”

Kevin stares at him uncomprehendingly. “What the fuck?”

Aaron throws his hands up in the air. “Exactly!”

“Crazy how that happened,” Neil chimes in. He’s graduated from biting his lip to biting his cheek to prevent an inappropriate reaction to the situation.

“What the fuck could have _ possibly _ possessed you to dump out everything we own?” Aaron demands. He looks a bit like a drowned rat, blond hair plastered to his forehead and illuminating the aggravated flush across his cheeks.

Neil can’t help it: the laughter bubbles out. He can’t remember the last time he felt such pure, unbridled joy, but seeing Aaron so disgruntled _ almost _ made it worth being trapped in the bathroom for so long.

Aaron narrows his eyes. “Who left the toddler unsupervised?”

“Andrew was in charge of him,” Kevin mutters.

“Excuse me,” Neil interrupts. “‘In charge of?’ I’m an adult. I don’t need someone supervising me."

“A fucking adult wouldn’t have dumped every single bottle of shampoo he got his hands on!”

He shrugs. “I was bored. You guys didn’t even have a magazine or anything in there to read.”

“A real shame we weren’t hospitable hosts to a burglar,” Andrew drawls from the hallway.

_"Burglar_ implies I was stealing something. I just wanted to sleep here,” Neil protests. “Does stealing sleep count as a tangible good?”

Andrew stares at him for long enough that Neil realizes he’s said or done something wrong. (He's been doing a lot of that lately, apparently.) He catches himself too late: it’s clear that Neil’s not a part of this group of family and friends. He’s overstepped by speaking to them so casually, as though he belonged and had been granted the privilege of something as lighthearted as banter.

Something twists uncomfortably in his stomach. It feels an awful lot like embarrassment, reminding Neil that his entire life has been a chain-reaction of regret. He needs to remember that he is an outsider, that they have a reason for letting him be here, but also that it has nothing to do with his shining personality. It’s a lesson Mary taught him years ago: nobody is going to be kind to him for nothing. They want something from him, and he cannot be foolish enough to believe anyone will be his _ friend. _

It should be enough that they think he’ll be good at exy. 

He's worried that it isn't. 

The personality of Neil Josten needs more fine-tuning than any of his other fake identities, evidently.

Andrew tosses a bundle of something at Neil. “Put these on.”

He untangles the dark fabric until the articles of clothing are recognizable, and then frowns.

“I’m not wearing this.” He stares down at the shirt — which doesn’t truly encapsulate the sheer _ ridiculousness _ of the article of clothing — and says again, “I’m not wearing this.”

It’s too thin, for one. It's a pathetic attempt at combating the disgustingly hot summer weather, a shirt made of a fabric so delicate it’s almost translucent. It’s a darker shade, grey playing at black, but there’s no way skin wouldn’t be visible beneath it.

It’s also short-sleeved. No amount of coercing is going to get Neil into a short-sleeved shirt. 

Andrew’s watching him with a gaze that’s far too sharp to be anything but assessing, and he quickly looks away, feeling caught at something and not knowing quite what it is he’s revealed by the denial.

“I already said I would go,” Neil says, hoping to ply him with _ that _ acquiescence. “But I can’t wear that. What’s wrong with my clothes now?”

Nicky makes a choked noise and mutters something like, “What _ isn’t _ wrong with them?”

Kevin, surprisingly, is the only one with a convincing argument that actually has merit. “Look, you saw us last night. Do you really want to stand out by wearing… that?” 

Neil looks down at the beige long-sleeve and comfortable jeans adorning his body, pretending to consider Kevin’s words. He can’t let anyone know that _ standing out _ is exactly the last thing he wants, which means he’s going to have to wear _ something _ similar to what Andrew’s just thrown at him.

Aaron makes an exasperated noise and says, “Are we ever going to leave? I need a drink if I’m going to be around this asshole any longer.”

“I’ll wear the pants,” Neil says, though he’s not sure they’ll fit, honestly; they look way too tight for anyone to fit actual legs through. 

A few seconds later, a new piece of clothing is thrown at him. Apparently Andrew's allergic to handing things over like a normal human being. This shirt is marginally better: it’s long-sleeved, with thin slashes cut through it that have a sort of meshy material underneath them. He’d be worried if they didn’t have the panels, but they seem opaque enough to hide any real glimpses of skin.

“Thanks,” Neil says, surprised. He’d expected much more resistance. Andrew ignores his gratitude, though, which is more like what he'd expected. 

They pile into an expensive-looking car in the driveway once Neil has changed. He feels uncomfortable in the tight clothing, and plucks distastefully at the way it drapes on his body. It makes him feel vulnerable even being in it: clothing like this is harder to run in, which would give an assailant a hefty advantage in a chase.

(It also, regrettably, will make Neil stand out unless he's standing quite closely to Andrew's group.)

Andrew slides into the backseat of the car after gesturing sarcastically for Neil to climb in before him, caging Neil between him and Aaron. _Two homicidal twins and Neil Josten: An Autobiography. _

Neil expects them to go directly to the Eden’s place they’d described, but instead Nicky takes them to a shitty-looking diner that looks more along the lines of where Neil would go while on the run. When they enter, a waitress greets them with a southern drawl and a smile of familiarity, and they all pile into a nearby booth. Thankfully, this time, Neil’s pressed up against Kevin instead of one of the Minyards.

It’s a preferable fate to Andrew’s too-knowledgeable glances and Aaron’s poorly-concealed glowers, especially when Kevin starts murmuring to him about what happened to their previously signed striker, Janie Smalls, and why they’re willing to sign a complete wild card for the following school year.

Distracted by his conversation with Kevin, Neil hardly notices when Andrew rudely shoves a handful of empty cracker wrappers into their waitress’s apron. It’s a little more noteworthy when she returns with a pile of napkins that is excessive even for a table of five college-aged men splitting two ice cream sundaes.

He’s _ definitely _ paying attention when Andrew grabs something from between the napkins and slips them into his pockets. There’s no mention of the transaction that just took place from anyone, though, and nobody seems surprised when Andrew leaves a stack of bills that covers far more than ice cream would.

Neil’s not sure what to think, but this seems to be routine. He climbs back into the car with the rest of them, stomach refusing to settle completely.

The club is packed when they pull up, a long line of people dressed in clothing more revealing than the first shirt Andrew had given Neil trailing around the building. There's a shockingly neon sign that boasts the location is called _Eden's Twilight. _Nicky drops them off at the entrance to park the car, and the bouncer at the door has a quick conversation with Andrew before they’re all let inside ahead of the line.

Neil’s instantly overwhelmed. He hates places like this — it’s way too easy to quietly stab someone and escape unseen, or to poison a drink. Mary had avoided clubs and bars like the plague, and her distaste had been rooted in logic. He wraps careful arms around his bag, making sure it’s untouched by anyone other than himself as they step by the packed bodies filling the club.

Andrew peels off toward the bar, and Nicky loops an arm into Neil’s and drags him over to a free table near the back of the club. He seems much more in his element here than he had in the house, more lively and energetic. 

Nicky, Aaron, and Kevin seem to have a routine down once Andrew returns with a tray full of shot glasses of clear liquid. Once they're all seated, Andrew tosses the packets he’d pocketed at the diner onto the table.

“Cracker dust,” Nicky explains as he and Aaron grab a few along with drinks off the tray. “Non-addictive, but makes you feel great, like nothing could go wrong.”

Neil watches as they pour the small packets into their mouths and chase them with shots. Within seconds, they’re plied with alcohol and drugs and wandering off toward the dancefloor. Kevin bypasses the packets of cracker dust in favor of several shots of vodka, and then he’s heading after them.

Their departure leaves Neil alone with Andrew at the small table.

It feels like a trap.

“I’m going to give you a choice, Neil,” Andrew says, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. He grabs a shot for himself and tips his head back, swallowing the liquor easily before placing the shot glass, facedown, right in front of Neil.

It’s _ absolutely _ a trap.

Neil narrows his eyes, hackles raised. “How benevolent of you.”

Andrew salutes him lazily, before grabbing one of the bigger drinks that Kevin, Nicky, and Aaron hadn’t demolished within seconds. Neil watches as he reaches for one of the remaining drug packets before tearing it open and sprinkling it into the full glass.

This isn't going in a direction that bodes well for Neil.

“There’s something in that bag you don’t want others to find,” Andrew starts, gesturing at the duffle bag Neil’s holding in his lap. “So you can either share with the class, or have a drink or two before we have a nice, honest chat. Just you and me.”

“No.” It’s out of Neil’s mouth before he can control it, the kind of impulsive response that’s probably going to get him killed.

“It’s an _ either or _ question,” Andrew says brightly, like he’s on the court-mandated medication that makes him manic. Neil knows he isn’t: he hasn’t seen Andrew pop a single pill since they met. “Not a _ yes or no _ one.”

His heart trips into overdrive: he can feel it pulsing through his ears louder than the terrible music of the club. “Whatever happened to respecting someone’s privacy?”

“Oh,” Andrew says, and there’s something condescending about his tone, like he’s rubbing the word in Neil’s face. “That’s reserved for people who don’t break into my fucking house.”

Deeply-ingrained instinct had Neil evaluating every entrance and exit to the club the moment they’d walked in. He double-checks them now, eyes flitting over every doorway that leads out of the gigantic room of the club.

Andrew snaps in front of Neil’s face, dragging his attention back. “You’re hiding something, rabbit, and I need to know if it’s going to impact Kevin’s remarkably stupid plans. Now choose. I’m already losing my patience.”

He wants to snap, _ I didn’t know you knew what that word means, let alone possess any of it, _ but he can’t, because the choices — “choices” — laid out in front of him are both miserably condemning.

Andrew’s reaction to Neil seeing Kevin had cast him in a suspicious light already; there’s absolutely no way Neil can show him his binder. He has an inkling that Andrew wouldn’t even care about the hundreds of thousands of dollars stashed into it — he’d hone in on the news clippings of Kevin and Riko like a fucking bloodhound.

But neither can he afford to lose his inhibitions in a public place like this. His tolerance for alcohol is shit because it’s not meant to be _ enjoyed, _ it’s a tool to keep him sane when he’s sewing up a bullet wound in a dark alley, and overusing it will make the inevitable pain of an injury that much worse. The dust that Aaron and Nicky had so freely consumed earlier is an unknown, as well: there’s no telling how Neil’s body and mind might react to it. 

Neil’s fucked, and he has nobody to blame but himself.

There’s also the distinct possibility that, despite Andrew’s pretend kindness of letting Neil pick his poison, he has every intention of finding a way to get answers to _all _of his questions. Neil’s alone in this club and can’t rely on anyone associated with Andrew nor trust a stranger, and there’s nowhere safe to dump his bag that Andrew wouldn’t find out about.

_ Fuck. _

Andrew’s apparently fine with letting Neil suffer in silence. He’s taken out his phone and is idly typing something on it while Neil contemplates the best escape route.

“I’m not drinking that,” Neil says finally. It’s far too risky. He’s a great liar sober, but under the influence of alcohol and dust, Neil can’t guarantee he won’t say something fatal.

Andrew tucks his phone away. “Done with your internal crisis?”

There is nothing on the entire planet that Neil wants more right now than to punch the living daylights out of him. “I’ll be honest,” he tries. “No need for alcohol. Ask me what you want.”

“Who gave you the scars?” 

Neil’s heart stops. “What?”

“Your scars.” Andrew gestures to his own arms in that way that universally indicates he’s talking about the same part of someone else’s body.

When the fuck had he seen Neil’s scars? He sucks in a too-desperate breath, mind frantically retracing his steps. He’d definitely been alone when he’d changed, and it's impossible that his own clothes had left his skin so vulnerable. He risks a glance down at the borrowed clothing he’s wearing, even though he’d done the same thing a few hours previous to ensure his marred skin had been appropriately covered.

There’s no way for Andrew to know about how damaged his skin is beneath the acquired clothing, but he clearly does.

Unfazed, Andrew does another shot before wagging the empty glass in Neil’s direction. “Well, this honesty thing is going swimmingly.”

Neil could just leave. He’s made it out of their house, and he has his posessions. It’ll be obvious if Andrew tries to chase after him, but he’s skilled at losing a tail in a crowd. There’s no reason for him to put up with this shit, and he doesn’t want to play Andrew’s game any longer.

But if he runs now, he’ll be throwing away Kevin’s offer. A proposition like that isn’t ever going to make its way back to Neil again, and the thought of losing it before he’s even had the chance to experience it stalls him. He wants to play exy before he dies, especially if it’s against college-trained athletes. With Kevin’s guidance on the court, he might even be able to pretend he’d be good at it.

As though reading his mind, Kevin makes his way back over to their table. He looks between them, makes pointed eye contact with Andrew, and then takes the last shot off of the tray, tipping it back into his mouth.

These men drink vodka like it’s water.

“My bag,” Neil says, through gritted teeth. It's one of the hardest things he's ever done. “I’ll show you. But not here.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i died for an indeterminable amount of months 
> 
> i honestly have no idea how anyone manages to be a functional adult

Neil trails behind Andrew, regretting his decision even before he’s really committed to admitting to a damn thing. 

As they walk through the club, the writhing bodies of people dancing around them serving as some kind of macabre backdrop to what’s about to happen, Neil tries to figure a way out of this. Short of running, though, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to convince Andrew that he’s not a threat, and he really, _ really _doesn’t want to run.

The contents of his binder are going to condemn him, but agreeing to Kevin’s ridiculous demand is one of the first decisions Neil’s ever really made for himself. Even the mere thoughtof sacrificing it sends something painful arcing through his chest.

There is no way Andrew comprehends the kind of vulnerability he’s demanding from Neil. He feels stripped to the bone, the metaphorical pain almost worse than Lola’s sharpest knives skinning the flesh from Neil’s body as some sort of twisted lesson.

It helps, the most minuscule amount, to think of conceding to Andrew as just another roadblock. If he can pass this test, then Neil will be in the clear, at least until his father finds and kills him.

“In here,” Andrew says, inclining his head toward a nondescript door with an _ Employees Only _placard on it.

“This isn’t the best place,” Neil hedges. He’d been anticipating a back entrance, where they’d go outside and Neil could bolster his courage with the fresh chill of air in his lungs. Instead, he’s led into what’s clearly some sort of lounge for the bar’s staff. Worn-looking furniture litters the space, and the walls loom around him, dim lights casting ominous shadows around the room.

Why Andrew’s allowed back here is anyone’s guess. Why Neil’s in here with him is an even bigger mystery.

“Well, charity case,” Andrew drawls, gesturing at the duffle bag that Neil’s pressing to his chest like it's about to leap away from him in a bid for freedom. “Open up. Let’s see what you have to hide.”

Neil doesn’t move. He can’t make his arms listen to him: unclenching his muscles and opening up the bag to someone who’s essentially a stranger goes against everything he’s ever known. 

Once he does this, there’s no going back. 

They stare at each other, unmoving. Finally Andrew lunges for the bag, and Neil spins on his heel, instinct taking over as he dodges the movement. It’s not even a real fight: Andrew had clearly just been goading Neil into action, because the moment Neil takes a step back, out of his range, Andrew stops.

He cocks his head to the side, mockingly. “You already told me you’re on the run because you stole money. You’re not backing out now.”

“I’m not,” Neil agrees, pulse racing already. “Just — give me a second.” He thinks of the drink sitting abandoned at their table, laced with drugs that will wreak havoc on Neil’s cognition. He thinks about the binder, about how Andrew’s going to make him bleed the moment he realizes how carefully Neil’s been tracking Kevin. He grimaces.

Maybe he can convince Andrew that he stole the money from Kevin’s family or something. Kayleigh had a lot of money, based on the research Neil did over the years from library computers, and it would explain away Neil’s initial reaction to recognizing Kevin in the hallway. It’s not foolproof, but Neil doesn’t have anything better to try, and so he says, “The money’s related to Kevin.”

His heartbeat is so loud in his ears he’s shocked Andrew can’t hear it. For all that Neil’s an effective liar, his body's tells never fail to ramp up his uneasiness. Too much is at risk to give into panicked anxiety, though. He steels himself.

Andrew’s eyes narrow in some sort of incomprehensible understanding, but his next words stall Neil entirely. “Your parents stole from the Moriyamas.”

Neil nearly chokes at the words, sweat pooling in the dip of his spine and his hindbrain hissing, _ Run, you idiot, run. _ Neil hasn’t heard someone bring up the Moriyamas like that for years, his mother’s paranoia so extensive she hadn’t even called him _ Nathaniel _the moment they’d fled from Baltimore. There’s no reason for Andrew to know that Neil’s interacted with the Moriyamas before, unless Kevin already told him exactly who Neil is, and why he’d been on the Exy court with Kevin and Riko years ago—

The spark of a lighter flashes as Andrew lights a cigarette. “Calm down. You’re not the only one who knows about the Moriyama’s criminal extracurriculars. Who do you think fucked Kevin’s hand?”

Oh. _ Oh. _

This is the perfect out, Neil realizes with a surge of adrenaline. Andrew’s trying to _connect _with him. He thinks Neil’s panicking because the Moriyamas are the ones he’s stolen from, not the fucking Butcher of Baltimore. His mother had grabbed Nathan’s money and run, but Andrew seems to think the Moriyamas are loaded and well-versed in the criminal world.

Well, no shit. They’d let Neil’s father kill a man on the very grounds of a sports empire they’d single-handedly created. They’re far from squeaky clean.

But it might work. It might very well fucking _work. _

Riko being responsible for Kevin’s injury is a revelation, too, but it’s one Neil has to compartmentalize for now. 

“Yeah,” Neil says, slowly. “Yeah. It was a lot of money, so — so I’ve been keeping tabs. Trying to track them to make sure I stay under the radar.”

Andrew takes a drag from his cigarette and looks _slightly _less like he’s about to murder Neil at that. It’s the best he’s going to get, and so Neil digs his own grave and finally unzips the duffle bag, withdrawing the binder. It’s sandwiched between careful layers of Neil’s folded clothes, and Andrew isn’t a very emotive person, but the curiosity glinting in his eyes feels dangerous.

Neil puts it on a nearby table pushed against a worn-out looking couch and waits in silence.

Enough time passes that the anxious buzz beneath Neil’s skin fades into something marginally less frenetic. He doesn’t feel comfortable or _safe, _ not with his entire life held in Andrew Minyard’s hands, but Andrew just flips through each page slowly, brow drawn into a furrow as he glares down at the laminated pages.

“Even an idiot like you has to know that this doesn’t look good.”

Neil’s head jerks toward Andrew at the words. There’s nothing to say to that other than, “Yeah.”

“Help me put the pieces together,” Andrew says, like he really needs the assistance. As he speaks, Andrew withdraws every single article about Kevin and Riko that Neil’s collected over the years. He holds his cigarette casually between two fingers. “How did your family fall in with the Moriyamas? Which branch?”

Neil has no idea what Andrew’s talking about, but every muscle in his body is tense at the thought of what he’s about to reveal. “The scars,” he says, before clarifying, “my scars. I was young when we ran. I don’t know much, but my father was not kind before he died.”

The words seem to strike something within Andrew — not pity, never pity. But something approaching it. “So daddy’s a criminal who bites off more than he can chew, and then he’s put down for it. How did you manage to escape?”

Neil’s mouth is dry with panic. He thinks about his mother, blood so tacky against the leather of the passenger seat that Neil couldn’t even peel her body away from it and had to burn the entire car to hide the evidence. “They think I died with my parents.”

He feels sick. Even without divulging the whole truth, Andrew’s asking questions with dangerous answers, and this is way more than Neil ever intended anyone knowing about him.

Andrew crumples all of the articles into a ball, and then touches the tip of his lit cigarette to them. He stares Neil down as he burns them all. “You won’t need these anymore.”

The violation of his privacy hurts worse than any of the old injuries trailing across Neil’s body. He isn’t particularly in the mood to reveal more than what’s necessary, which makes it all the more startling when he catches himself saying, “The rest of the binder is just… ways to hide. Contacts to forge new papers. Locations I've already been so I know not to go back. There’s nothing else of note that will make sense to anyone but me.”

It’s not entirely true: there are still a few encoded coordinates to stashes of the rest of his father’s stolen money across the country, but most of it’s been depleted. The final caches will likely rot when Neil’s caught and murdered.

Andrew considers Neil, his gaze heavy. He slowly, deliberately, holds up a single finger on one hand. “You’ve told me a lot tonight. I’ll answer one question of yours in return.”

“What?”

“Is that your question?”

Neil’s protest stutters and dies in his throat. He’s stuck on how little sense it makes — it’s clear that Andrew is Kevin’s attack dog, or something, and the interrogation is about protecting him. Why the fuck would he try to match Neil’s current vulnerability in even the slightest bit?

“The house,” Neil says after an uncomfortable stretch of time. “Why were you all there? It was empty for weeks. I checked.”

Andrew stomps out the smoldering ashes of the Kevin/Riko articles. When they’re reduced to nothing more than a sooty mess, he picks the binder up and passes it back to Neil after one final perfunctory glance. “Nicky owns it. We live in Palmetto, but the drive out to Columbia isn’t bad when we need to go to the club for the weekend. It’s a good place to crash when Kevin gets so drunk he can’t even walk.”

So Neil getting caught was just sheer dumb luck because a handful of college students were trying to have a fun weekend. Great. He wastes no time cramming his binder back into the duffle bag, frantic but still meticulous enough to make sure it’s fitted right inside the bag.

“And this?” Neil gestures around the room. The weight of his bag’s strap across his chest is a comfort, and with the binder’s visible absence, he feels his confidence returning.

“Ah, ah,” Andrew says, and for the span of a heartbeat, it sounds almost _teasing. _ “That’s two questions.”

Neil shrugs. “Suit yourself.” 

“We used to work here,” Andrew says, inexplicably, moving past Neil toward the doorframe. “Staff gives us full run of the club, still. After you, rabbit.”

When they leave the staff room, the thumping bass of music coming from the dance floor is almost a relief. It’s further proof that he’s survived yet another ordeal, and Neil can’t help but feel triumphant. Andrew has accepted his half-truths, and he’s still about to go back to Palmetto State to play _exy. _There’s something very nearly _freeing _about knowing that Andrew’s seen his secrets. He’s laid eyes on Neil laid bare, and they both walked away from it, perhaps not scot-free but still _ alive. _

He can’t even bring himself to complain when Andrew wrangles up his drunken family and Kevin, cramming Neil into the back seat between Nicky and Aaron as he drives them all back to the house.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, we’re fucked,” Wymack announces confidently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> belatedly, i realized that andrew minyard is also a part of this story

“Well, we’re fucked,” Wymack announces confidently. "Excellent work, Kevin. I literally could not have done worse without your help."

“Your optimism is contagious,” Andrew says, and true to his words, a ferocious-looking grin makes its way across his face. It’s deranged.

“I’m not sacrificing my summer for this,” Aaron growls, already making for the door to the court.

“You tried your best!” Nicky cajoles, though he’s hardly broken a sweat. It’s a testament to his sports conditioning.

“This is a waste of time,” Kevin declares. He leans against his racquet, and the action comes off as condescending.

“Ugh,” Neil grunts. He’s laid out flat on the court’s turf, staring up at the plexiglass ceiling pathetically. Every muscle in his body aches with overexertion, and his fingers tremble too much to even make a proper fist.

It is entirely possible that that the reason Neil’s mother wanted him as far from Kevin Day as they could physically get is because Kevin is a master of torture even beyond the known scope of what Nathan Wesninski will do if he gets ahold of Neil.

“This was our only chance,” Kevin says, turning toward Wymack, and somehow Neil manages not to flinch at the past tense. “Seth doesn’t have the stamina or motivation to play a full game. This season is over without a sub.”

“It’s,” Neil starts, relishing the burn in his lungs. It’s always been a soothing sort of pain to him, to know his body’s hauled itself into overtime in order to survive at all cost. “It’s only my first day of practice.”

Kevin turns on him with a sneer. It’s startling to see him in the bright orange of the Foxes — all of Neil’s news clippings of him have him decked out in black and red. “And your last, if _ that’s _ how you play exy.”

Neil would swing at him, if he could. As it is, his arms are a gelatinous mess from running drills before playing in a makeshift scrimmage with Aaron against Nicky and Kevin. “You’re the one who wanted me here,” he manages to snarl. It’d probably be more intimidating if he weren’t sprawled out on the ground, too weak to even get up.

“There are two months before the fall semester starts,” Wymack says. Neil doesn’t trust him — too close in age, appearance, height as his father. But he’s the real deciding factor of whether or not Neil gets to stay, Kevin be damned, and so he grits his teeth and makes the effort to listen to what he has to say. “Is there any potential? The ERC’s already on my ass about signing someone past the deadline. Am I going to regret this, Kevin?”

Kevin stares at Neil for a long moment. “Do you want this?”

Neil’s never wanted anything more in his entire miserable life. “Yes.”

“How are you going to prove it?”

He’d thought giving his all to this mock-practice would show his drive. Neil hasn’t had an exy racquet in his hands since he was a kid, playing at little league. The sheer rush of adrenaline as they’d shown him around the stadium, even with its vivid, horrendous orange paint _everywhere_, had carried him through the first few minutes of the drills Kevin had set up along the court, but it had quickly become apparent that frothing enthusiasm wasn’t a sufficient replacement for _skill. _

Neil’s a runner. His arms haven’t built nearly enough muscle to shoot the ball as far as literally anyone else on the field, and all of his attempts at playing at remotely the same level have been pathetically laughable. The scrimmage he’d played against Nicky and Kevin had been more akin to a slaughter. Against an actual backliner marking him, Neil hadn’t stood a chance. It's the first time both Wymack and Kevin have watched him play, and he's failed miserably.

There’s absolutely no way Neil deserves to be on the same court as Class I exy players, but it’s nice to pretend. They have the aim, strength, and stamina to succeed, and Neil’s only advantage is that he’s faster than them all. 

But speed means nothing without the accuracy to score or control the ball while it’s in play.

Fuck. _ Fuck. _ Neil’s eyes sting in frustration. He’ll do whatever it takes to improve, to earn a spot among the best of the best.

“Anything you want,” Neil says. 

From somewhere in the distance, he hears Andrew snort and say, “Junkie,” but all that matters is Kevin’s answer. He stares back, unyielding.

“Promise me your game.” Kevin still looks disappointed in the abysmal performance Neil had just displayed, but Neil swallows down the anger. Kevin _had _chosen him to be the Foxes’ striker sub. He’s untrained and inexperienced, but one of the best players in exy history had watched Neil and seen something other than a useless runaway. "Give me your all, no questions asked, and we might stand a chance."

That has to mean something.

It’s a stupid move, but Neil manages to push himself, on violently shaking limbs, into a sitting position. “You have it.” Conviction laces his words: privately, he thinks it’s the most honest he’s ever been. “Whatever you need.”

Kevin nods once. “You have one week to master the basics. We’ll start with four-hour practices, twice a day. Next week, I’m upping them to five hours. The only thing I’m grateful for is that you don’t need to unlearn any bad habits. You’ll start with Raven drills.”

Aaron’s already gone, but Neil risks a quick glance at Nicky and Andrew, who are still idly hanging about the court. Andrew’s drugged, like he has been every time Neil’s had the displeasure of seeing him since they arrived in Palmetto, and he’s biding his time by walking around the perimeter of the court and kicking out at random plexiglass panels.

There’s a snap — a physical, actual god-damned snap in front of his face, and Neil shoots a glare at the hand, which is attached to the arm of an irritated Kevin.

“Don’t even _think _about others right now,” Kevin says, and underneath the command is a sense of entitlement that makes Neil already begin to regret this decision. “You’re nothing compared to any of them. If you have the energy to consider what a game would be like with other players on the court, you haven't been working hard enough.”

_ You’re nothing. _ He can’t fault Kevin for speaking the words aloud, not when they’re the unbidden, raw truth of Neil’s entire existence.

Still, the words settle beneath his ribs and begin to rot.

“Yeah,” Neil says. He’s exhausted from both the practice and the dramatic change in his quality of life. What he wouldn’t give for his mother’s presence, as little comfort as it would provide with her beating him half to death in frustration at the choices he’s made.

* * *

Neil is staying at Wymack’s apartment for the duration of summer, which means he’s hardly sleeping. Being under the same roof as someone who could easily pass as Neil’s father in the dark, shadows cast over his face, has been an extremely effective sleep deterrent.

It doesn't matter that Wymack himself has told him he'd never initiate that kind of physicality with anyone, least of all his own players. Neil _knows_ that people are capable of anything, even if they don't believe it themselves.

Kevin’s absolutely noticed his flagging exhaustion as they run drills eight hours a day, but he’s refrained from saying anything. Yet. Possibly he truly thinks that it’s just grueling practices that are taking their toll on Neil — which is also part of his fatigue.

His disastrous first practice has apparently set the tone for the resulting week. Kevin is ruthless in his instruction, demanding that Neil immediately begin working on the intricate precision training that apparently _all strikers worth their fucking salt _are capable of. Nothing he does is good enough for Kevin’s approval, and they’ve nearly come to blows multiple times.

Unfortunately, he’s inherited his father’s temper.

The callouses that build on the palms of his hands are a rough, satisfying drag across the rest of his skin, though. They’re proof that his body’s changing and adapting to Kevin’s expectations, if not his full approval.

Knowing Riko was the one to break Kevin’s hand doesn’t change the fact that the drills the Moriyamas created for the Ravens are as brutal as they are effective.

His entire body is a throbbing, bruised mess of limbs from running the same exercises over and over again. The lack of sleep is going to catch up with him eventually, but Neil’s used to running on fumes and a healthy dose of panic, and anyway the few snatches of rest he’s catching and the steadiness of meals that Wymack cooks (or, as is the case more often, orders in from restaurants) have helped him gain enough weight that muscle begins to cord its way along his arms.

It’s gratifying, even considering the inevitable crash and burn.

* * *

Neil’s out on a run, unable to sleep with Wymack snoring so loudly throughout the apartment, when he hears the wheels of a car slowly rolling in the gravel behind him.

It’s absolutely deliberate — hardly anyone travels this particular path so late at night, and the speed of the car is far too languid to be doing anything but following him. He has a few options: turn and sprint full-speed toward the 24-hour grocery store just a few miles away, or try to overpower whoever’s in the car. Most likely it’s one of his father’s men, which means they’ll be expecting the assault and will have a weapon to boot, but if Neil's quick enough, he might be able to get the jump on them and wrest it out of their control.

Before he can make a decision, a voice calls out, loud in the resounding silence surrounding them. “What are you running from, rabbit?” 

Both the words and the speaker are familiar, and Neil shrugs noncommittally as he turns to face Andrew, some of his defensive strategies falling away.

But not all of them.

It's not precisely _comfort_ that overtakes him, but Neil will take Andrew Minyard over his father's men.

“Don’t be boring,” Andrew drawls when Neil fails to answer his patronizing question. He flicks his fingers in Neil’s direction. “Get in.”

Neil eyes the sleek door of the car. He’s not sure if this is another one of Andrew’s traps, but he’s hardly been bothered by the blond since they all arrived in Palmetto. Neil had just assumed he’d been too preoccupied being high out of his mind on his medication, but the sharp look in Andrew’s eyes indicates he’s nothing but sober right now.

It makes sense, too. He’d run through his daily doses and it would make no sense to drug himself up this late at night, where he’d completely wreck his sleep schedule. It still doesn’t explain why he’s driving around, though, apparently hunting for Neil.

“Where’s Kevin?” he asks as he climbs in. It’s not more or less safe than Wymack’s apartment would be, he supposes. It’s better to meet Andrew’s challenges head-on; subterfuge will only bite him in the ass, like it did with his binder.

“Who cares. He's probably in bed jerking off to old exy matches." Andrew turns the wheel sharply, spinning them in a dangerously tight circle so they’re heading back toward Wymack’s complex. “I need a bedtime story before I sleep.”

“Once upon a time,” Neil starts, dramatically, “there was an annoying teenager named Andrew Minyard.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that one before. It doesn’t end well.”

Neil’s jaw nearly cracks on a yawn. Suddenly, he feels drained. “Fairytales rarely do. The originals, at least.”

“Huh,” Andrew says. “Tell me something else, then, like why you haven’t slept since we left Columbia. Is the most highly esteemed Coach Wymack not being a gracious host?”

“You are _so _—” His temper flares, and Neil forces himself to bite the words off before they become real.

Andrew shoots him a glance, casual as can be. He doesn’t even look fazed. “Ouch. Where’d that bite come from?”

Counting to ten in his head, Neil hisses a breath out his teeth. “You can’t possibly know as much as you pretend to.”

“Or maybe you’re just not used to others paying attention.”

Fuck if that isn’t the truth. Neil’s not meant to be noticed: every careful aspect of all of his previous identities have been crafted around being as bland and unremarkable as possible. It’s upsetting, and the _tiniest_ bit infuriating, to have Andrew consistently blow through all of his carefully-erected barriers. 

“Wymack is fine,” Neil lies. “I’m just worried that practicing with Kevin won’t be enough come fall.”

“You have his attention,” Andrew says, like Neil doesn’t already know that. He just wishes the attention wasn't focused around constantly scathing remarks about his ineptitude and shortcomings. 

Silence grows between them. Surprisingly, it’s not uncomfortable, and Neil shifts into his seat until he’s curled up against the expensive leather. He watches as houses and street lights blur by.

Somehow, he manages to falls asleep in the car’s passenger seat while Andrew drives them mindlessly around town.

* * *

They don’t talk about it.

* * *

It takes weeks before Andrew deigns to join their practice. He’s been a constant presence up in the stands while Kevin works with Neil, but he’s always been too amped up on his pills to give a shit what’s going on down at the court.

It’s been a frustration and a half, honestly. Neil _knows _he’s good in the goal, and he feels like he’s finally ready to start practicing beyond the endless drills Kevin’s been forcing into him, but Kevin would rather die than do anything but play striker. 

Very quickly, Neil learns to be careful of what he wishes for. Andrew’s joining their practice, yes, but he’s also opting to do nothing except literally sit in front of the goal and loudly sing some awful jingle about a sponge living in the ocean.

Neil has been shooting goals at him for the past fifteen minutes. It’s a cocktail of satisfaction that his aim is improving mixed with annoyance that Andrew isn’t even _trying_ to block them. In rebellion, or perhaps solidarity, of Andrew’s lack of giving a shit, Neil collapses in the middle of the field, directly on top of the white paw print embedded in the turf.

He’s hardly been on the ground for a second before Kevin snaps, “Get up.”

“Christ, Kevin,” Neil says, the words quick with heat and exasperation. “We’ve been practicing for six hours already. Give me a fucking break.” 

Kevin laughs without much humor. “Oh, sure. Take a break. Take all the time you need. It’s not like you could possibly get any _worse _by doing nothing. In fact, why don’t we just stop entirely? You’re hardly improving, anyway.”

“Andrew isn’t doing anything, either,” Neil points out. He’s dealt with Kevin berating him so much in the past few weeks that the words don’t hit their mark. “He hasn’t blocked a single ball since he stepped into goal.”

“What goals, exactly, are you shooting? The ones that a toddler without even a goalie racquet could block?”

“I hate you,” Neil says, with feeling.

From across the field, Andrew cackles at them both. “How’s the investment going?” he calls out.

This is his life now. Neil’s not entirely sure if this is an upgrade from living on the run, but it sure as hell presents a new list of priorities.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kevin learns about Edgar Allan's district transfer. Approximately nobody is pleased to hear the news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm still alive and hope you're all managing to cope in this crazed world
> 
> pulled some dialogue from the foxhole court for kevin's breakdown, pls no sue me nora

Neil learns, one sunny, humid day in July, that Kevin has yet to actually practice with the Foxes. He’s been a harsh taskmaster, setting Andrew’s family up with tough drills and running Neil into the ground, but other than the scrimmage — which really had been more of a slaughter — Kevin had refused to engage in practice alongside them. Barking orders, apparently, was vastly superior to lowering himself to the standards of Neil’s terrible gameplay.

The day he finally steps onto the court, geared up and ready to play with them, Neil grins and lobs a ball directly at him. Though it’s nearly as annoying to have Kevin egging him on as it is to listen to him critiquing every move Neil makes, he takes it as a sign that he’s improving if the famous Kevin Day is willing to step on the Exy pitch alongside him. 

Every night, as Kevin demands Neil work harder, faster, _ better, _ he’s begun training his right hand. It’s the oddest sight to see, like the world has tilted slightly on its axis and the fluids in Neil’s ears are struggling to adjust to this new equilibrium. Kevin playing with his right hand is far too new to be a sight any of them are used to, but rather than the broken tragedy of his left hand, it's a new beginning. They’re starting to look like a _ team, _ decked out in orange on the freshly re-turfed court. Even though Andrew’s attendance is still a shaky thing, Neil’s starting to feel like maybe this isn’t a dream. Like maybe this is something that he can _have. _

A small knot of fire burns in Neil’s stomach. He pretends it isn’t hope, but late at night, as he dozes on Wymack’s couch, he can’t prevent the smile from curling his lips.

* * *

Neil wakes up at the crack of dawn and heads to the court for some quiet practice alone. He’s almost perfected the newest Raven drill Kevin had shown him, and it’s nice to get some shots in without hearing condescension dripping from Kevin’s critical words. He practices for hours, time blurring together, until his head starts to ache alongside the throb of his hands. It’s a satisfactory burn of his muscles, though, and Neil locks up before jogging his way back to Wymack’s place.

Just as he’s sliding the key into the door and turning the knob, Neil hears a desperate, cracked voice wail, "How could you let him do this?" and it takes a heartbeat to realize that it’s _ Kevin. _ He doesn’t sound anything like the domineering man he is on the court. Rather, he sounds — scared. Terrified.

"I don't have any say in this and you know it. Hey!" 

The sound of a tussle greets Neil’s ears: the thud of bodies hitting a wall, and the shattering noise of glass breaking. He flinches, stuck in a memory for the briefest of moments, before Wymack demands, "Look at me. Look at me, god damn you, and breathe." 

Kevin’s terror is nearly contagious as he babbles about Andrew and a _ he _that must be Riko. He insists upon returning to the Nest, groveling at Riko’s feet. 

"Shut up," Wymack says, mirroring Neil’s thoughts. Kevin got _out_: why the fuck would he willingly go back? It’s something that Neil can’t fathom. 

The conversation shifts to Andrew, and it makes him frown. _Kevin's promised me something,_ Andrew had said to him when he'd been trapped in a bathroom in a house in Columbia. It's clear from Wymack and Kevin's conversation that Andrew's promise has something to do with protecting Kevin — from the Moriyamas? From Riko? If that's the case, why the fuck isn’t Andrew here to hear this? To reassure Kevin that he’ll be safe? (Neil’s not sure _ comfort _ and _ Andrew _ are two reconcilable ideas, but surely Kevin’s not stupid enough to think this is something he can keep to himself?)

The two of them prove Neil wrong a moment later, when Wymack insists that Kevin keep quiet until June: “I told you because you need to know, but I need you to keep it from Andrew until then. Tell me you can see Andrew today and not completely freak out." 

"Andrew will figure it out. He's not stupid.”

"Then you have to be the better liar," Wymack responds. "The ERC is looking for a reason to take him away from us, and you know they won't give him back. Then where will you be?" 

This clearly isn’t a conversation meant for his ears, and a simmering kind of fury settles deep in his belly. It’s one thing for Kevin to accept the risks for himself, just as Neil has. But to drag others into his business, to keep a secret from the one person who keeps to his word?

(_Hypocrisy, _ Neil’s mother hisses in his mind. _ You’ll kill them all just to play a stupid game. You really think your father will ignore them when he finds you?) _

“I have to call Jean,” Kevin says, and Neil’s heard enough. He slips out of the apartment as quietly as he’d entered.

* * *

He waits one day. Surely that’s enough time for Kevin to change his mind and tell Andrew about the district transfer. Surely that’s enough time for Kevin to inform the rest of them, giving them time to react and adjust to their new reality. The Ravens are linked to the Moriyamas: it's obvious that there's an ulterior motive here.

Wymack had insisted upon Kevin keeping it secret, but surely they both see how _stupid _doing so would be. It’s easier to rip the bandaid off in one go than to slowly torture yourself, and Neil doesn’t understand why they’d rather let this eat them up. The Ravens are a threat, but whatever trauma Kevin’s undergone doesn’t quite match up with his severe reaction the day before. Kevin had _asked_ Andrew to protect him: why go through all the trouble of tagging along behind a nearly-rabid beast if you couldn't even trust them with pertinent information like the Ravens' transfer? It's different for Neil: he already knows Andrew won't be able to protect him, not really. But he hasn't made the decision to stay, to create a new life here, the way Kevin has. If Kevin truly wants this new beginning, wants to thrive alongside his father and the Foxes, why is he withholding this?

But nothing changes. Andrew remains manic, nonsensical one moment and then threatening murder the next, and Nicky, who couldn’t keep a secret to save his life, continues gushing about Erik and the Germany trip he has planned for next summer. Kevin is off, though. He tries to hide it, but Neil knows what to look for.

Practice goes smoothly, or as smoothly as it can go. Neil’s finally building the muscle memory to try goal shots, and he can keep up a volley with Kevin even with Nicky marking him, but it’s still not _ enough. _ Especially not if Neil’s going to have to face the fucking Ravens during their season. 

Not if Riko, who had intentionally destroyed Kevin’s career, insists on dogging his steps.

It comes down to this: Neil needs to know more. He needs to know exactly why Riko would do something like crush his brother’s hand, and then transfer his entire team to the same district as Palmetto. 

It takes hardly any effort to figure out where Abby lives, and Neil sets off for her apartment at a brisk jog. Figuring out Kevin’s schedule (and, by proxy, a time when he’s away from Andrew) is a far more difficult task, but Wymack is taking Kevin to a physical therapy appointment today, and it’s the perfect opportunity.

“Neil,” Abby says as she opens the door, the draw of her eyebrows her only sign of surprise. “Come in, come in. How are you?”

Neil steps past the door’s threshold and his shoulders drop as cool air conditioning washes over him. "I'm fine."

“Let me get you some water,” Abby suggests when he doesn't announce his reason for the unprompted visit, noticing the sweat dripping from Neil’s hair and the slight heave of his chest.

“Appreciate it.” He considers asking her if Andrew’s home, but there’s a blond head peeking out from the back of the living room couch, and he makes his way through the small space.

“We need to talk,” Neil says, snagging Andrew’s attention from the carton of ice cream he appears to be hyperfixating on.

“No,” Andrew responds. Neil watches as he digs a spoon into the carton, withdrawing a spoonful of ice cream so large that Neil’s teeth ache in sympathy.

Well. That won’t do.

“Hey,” Neil snaps. He’d prefer to speak with a not-drugged up Andrew, but he doesn’t know when Kevin’s supposed to return. They’re short on time, and he’s not about to waste what little they do have watching Andrew zone out and eat awful food. _ “We need to talk.” _

“And,” Andrew says slowly, still staring at his ice cream, “I said no! You’ve wasted your time, little rabbit. Run along home, now.”

Half of Neil wants to tear the carton from his hands. The other half of him wants to spin on his heel and leave, abandoning Kevin’s melodrama and having to deal with his crazed bodyguard.

All of Neil wants to punch Andrew for being an unrepentant asshole.

It really is unfortunate that he can’t do any of that.

“I caught Kevin and Wymack talking,” Neil says quietly, aware of Abby puttering about in the kitchen. “Thought you might want to know they’re keeping secrets.”

Andrew stands up so abruptly his spoon clatters to the floor. “Well, now you’ve been wasting _ my _time!” he says, voice sounding too chipper to match the steel glinting in his eyes. “Bye, Abby, Neil here is going to take me on a chaperoned walk!”

“What,” Abby says distantly. “Oh, alright?”

Hooking a finger in the collar of Neil’s shirt, Andrew drags him out and up two flights of stairs until they reach a door marked _ Roof Access. _ There’s a broken lock dangling off of the latch, and Andrew unhooks it with the grace of familiarity.

It’s not very high up — Abby’s building is only a few stories tall — and the perimeter is guarded by a chest-high metal grate. Neil puts some distance between them, heading over to the edge.

“What was our least favorite exy fanatic talking about?” Andrew asks, baring his teeth. There’s a glassy sheen to his eyes, and the grimace mixed with that blank look is chilling. 

Neil leans over to look out at the apartment parking lot. There’s no point in beating around the bush — he’s not here for a social call. “Edgar Allan put in a transfer request. They’ll be part of our district on June 1st.”

Andrew — makes a noise. It’s a noise of derision, hissing and dark, before he grins, nasty and wide, at Neil. “The Ravens want to play with us, do they?”

“He found out yesterday,” Neil continues. “Wymack got the official announcement from the ERC.”

“Curious,” Andrew says, though his light tone is belied by his clenched fists. They unclench, slowly, and Andrew shakes out a cigarette from the pack stashed in his pocket. Neil pretends not to notice how his hands shake as he lights up. “And why am I hearing this from _ you?” _

“Because Kevin’s terrified,” Neil says, and there’s only a brief twang of upset. He gets Kevin’s panic, truly. But Kevin withholding this kind of information can only result in Andrew being unable to protect him, which in turn puts Neil in more immediate danger. “Absolutely lost it at the thought of having to see Riko again. I thought he’d tell you, but — here we are. Neither of them want you to know, but that’s because they don’t understand how relentlessly stupid it is to withhold information like that.” Neil doesn't wholly understand Wymack's fear about Andrew learning the truth, though he does get the politics of it all: with Andrew on his drugs, the ERC views him as less of a threat, and Wymack and Kevin both seem keen on keeping it that way. They’re fools, the lot of them, for thinking he’s not as capable of violence while drugged to the gills, but though Andrew's a wildcard, he wouldn't do anything to endanger the vow he'd shared with Kevin to keep him safe. Neil doesn't know him too well, but he does know this. 

It's probably why Riko's still alive, protected and safe in the Nest. Andrew understands his own limits, even if Wymack doesn't. Besides, Neil’s not Andrew’s biggest fan, but he knows firsthand what it’s like to have to go into a situation blind. If there’s a way he can prevent that, it will benefit them all.

Andrew takes a long drag. “Color me surprised, rabbit. Maybe you do have a spine, after all.”

It’s just another attempt at riling Neil up, and it almost works. He counts to ten in German in his head before exhaling loudly. “It’s Kevin’s spine you should be worried about. If he fucks this up for himself—“ _ then I’m dead, too, _ he doesn’t say. It’s not that Neil actually _believes _ Andrew can stand up to his father’s men, but if Andrew can’t even protect Kevin from Riko, then all of this is forfeit.

Telling Andrew about the Ravens is a test, really. Neil’s dead either way, but he’d like to pretend it won’t come so quickly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Andrew says. “Sheep to the slaughter. You’re all cowards, but _this_—” he jabs the cigarette in Neil’s direction “—I can work with this. Little liar spilling someone else’s secrets.” 

Interacting with Andrew while he’s high is an exercise in patience, one that Neil’s losing. But Neil Josten doesn’t have Nathaniel’s temper, so, through gritted teeth, Neil says, “You made me a promise. I’m just upholding my end of the bargain.”

Andrew barks a laugh loud enough to startle the both of them. “Fuck off,” he says, tone just a little too giddy to sound threatening. There’s a knife in his hand, though, one that wasn’t there a heartbeat ago. “I’m done with you. Get the hell out of here.”

Neil takes his leave, unwilling to push it. Andrew’s enough of a problem without drugs coursing through his veins, and any excuse to be far away from his knives is one he’ll take.

**Author's Note:**

> please come be my pal on [twitter dot com](http://www.twitter.com/wyverning)


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